"Now give me something to do," said Marion dancing up to her with one of the prettiest steps she had learned at the academy. "It's Thanksgiving, you know, to-morrow, and we have such lots and lots to do at home; there's pies and puddings and cakes and a big turkey to prepare, and a chicken pie, and nuts to crack, and apples to rub until you can see your face in them."

Aunt Betty's mouth and eyes opened as wide as they could for the wrinkles that held them while Marion told of the festival dinner, then she looked down at Marion's feet, and, not satisfied with the glimpse she caught of a pair of little boots, she lifted Marion's dress, then asked,—

"Be you lame?"

At first Marion was puzzled, then she remembered how she had danced into the room, so, with a merry peal of laughter, instead of answering, off she went into a series of pirouettes that might have astonished more accustomed eyes than those of her old Aunt Betty.

When she had danced herself out of breath she said, "Does that look like being lame? Better set me at work and let me use my feet to some more useful purpose!"

So still and stiff Aunt Betty stood that Marion could hardly restrain herself from catching hold of her and whirling her around in a waltz.

But fortunately she did not, for the first words her aunt said were,—

"Do you have Satan for a principal at your school, Marion Parke?"

"Satan! Why, auntie, we have Miss Ashton, and she's the loveliest Christian lady you ever saw. We girls think she is almost an angel! Do you think it's wicked to dance?"

"Sartain I do;" and the shake of Aunt Betty's gray head left no doubt she was in earnest.

"Then I'll not dance while I am here," and Marion sat herself down demurely in the nearest chair.

Aunt Betty looked at the big clock in the corner of the kitchen. The early dark was already creeping into the room, hiding itself under table and chair, showing the light of the isinglass doors of the cooking-stove with a fitful radiance, making Marion lonely and homesick, for you could hear the clock tick, the room was so still. Then Aunt Betty lighted two yellow tallow candles that stood in iron candlesticks on the mantel-shelf, put up a leaf of the kitchen table, covered it with a clean homespun cloth, put upon it two blue delft plates and cups, a "chunk" of cold boiled pork, a bowl of cider apple-sauce, a loaf of snow-white bread, and a plate of doughnuts.

"Come to supper!" she said, and Marion went. How hungry she was, and how good everything, even the cold boiled pork, looked, she will not soon forget!

Before they seated themselves, Aunt Betty stood at the back of her chair, and, leaning on its upper round with her eyes fixed on the pork, she said,—

"For all our vittles and other marcies we thank Thee."

Marion, when she became aware of what was taking place, bowed her head reverently; but when she raised it she could not conceal the smile that played around her mouth.

She did not know this was the same grace which had been said over that table for one hundred and twenty years; yet it made her feel more at home, and she began to chat with her quaint old relative in her pleasant way, telling her of her home, of their daily life there, of the good her father was doing, and how every one loved and respected him.

Aunt Betty listened in silence, only now and then uttering a grunt, which, whether it was commendatory or condemnatory, Marion could not tell. It was a long, dull evening that followed. At eight, one of the tallow candles, much to her joy, lighted Marion to her bed.



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ACADEMY GIRL'S THANKSGIVING AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

Marion never knew that shortly after she fell asleep a tall, gaunt woman with a gray-and-white blanket over her shoulders stole softly into her room, holding her candle high above her bed, and standing over, peered down at her.

As she gazed, a half-smile crept into her rugged face. "Pretty creatur!" she said aloud; then, with deft and careful fingers she tucked the bed-clothes close around the sleeping girl, smiled broadly, and crept out.

The next morning when Marion waked, through the odd little oriel window the late winter light was struggling fitfully in. At first she could not tell where she was: the rafters over her head, the bare white walls that surrounded her, the blue-and-white homespun quilt that covered her, were unlike any thing she had ever seen before.

She was on her feet in a moment, half frightened at the dim light. Had another night come? Had she slept over Thanksgiving?

When she went to the kitchen, Aunt Betty was there busy over the cooking-stove. She was about making an apology for her lateness, but she was interrupted by,—

"'Taint never too late to pray; you may read the Bible." She pointed without another word to the old family Bible. Marion took it, opened it slowly, waiting to be told where to read.

"Thanksgiving," said Aunt Betty briefly.

"It's all Thanksgiving my father says. He thinks the Bible was given us to make us happy."

"Thirty-fourth Psalm, then," and a quiet look came into the old seamed face.

When Marion had read it, her aunt rose from her chair, stepped behind it, tilted it on its front legs, and folding her hands on its top began to pray.

Like the grace at table, it was the same old prayer that had gone up from that same old kitchen for one hundred and twenty years. Its quaint simplicity was a marvel to the young girl who listened, but a breath of its devotion reached and touched her heart.

Then followed breakfast. Marion wondered, as they two sat at the table alone, how the old aunt could have borne the loneliness for so many long years.

To her, on her first Thanksgiving away from her cheerful home, there was something positively uncanny in the silence which settled down over the house; even the old yellow dog, with his nose between his front paws, slept soundly, and the great red rooster that had lighted upon the forked stick that before the back door had held the farm milk-pails for more than a century, instead of calling for his Thanksgiving breakfast, as orthodox New England roosters are expected to do, just flapped his wings lazily, and turned a much becombed head imploringly toward the kitchen window.

What was to be done with the long, dull festival day? Marion may be forgiven if she cast many longing thoughts back to the academy, to the pleasant bustle that filled the long corridors, the merry laughs of the girls, the endless chatter, the coming and the going that seemed to her never to cease. She was homesick to see Miss Ashton, her room-mates, and Helen, over whose daily life she had already installed herself as responsible for its comforts and its pleasures, and who, homeless and poor, remained almost by herself in the great empty building.

She was not, however, left long in doubt as to the day's occupations. Hardly had the breakfast dishes been put away, when Aunt Betty said,—

"Meetin' begins at ten. We hain't got no bell, and we'll start in season. You can put on your things."

The clock said nine; meeting began at ten. Five minutes were all she needed for preparation. Here was time for a few lines at least of that Greek tragedy. She had read one line, when the door opened, and there stood Aunt Betty.

"Listen, Aunt Betty!" she said. "Hear how soft these words are." Then she rattled off line after line of the chorus. This is Greek, she said, pausing to take breath. "Listen! I will translate for you."

She carried her book to the oriel window, so the light would fall more clearly on its page, and began,—

"Before the mirror's golden round, Curious my braided hair I bound, Adjusted for the night; And now, disrobed, for rest prepared, Sudden tumultuous cries are heard, And shrieks of wild affright. Grecians to Grecians shouting call, 'Now let the haughty city fall; In dust her towers, her rampiers lay, And bear triumphant her rich spoils away.'"

"Doesn't that roll along sublimely? Can't you hear the cries and the shouts of the Grecian host?"

"I can hear Marion Parke making a fool of herself. Be you, or be you not, goin' to meetin' with me?"

"Meeting? Why, of course I am. I wouldn't miss it for anything. I'll be ready in half a minute. Will you?"

Aunt Betty, in her short black skirt, her old gray sack, and her heavy shoes, did not make much of a holiday appearance. Something of this crept slowly into her brain as she looked down, so she turned quickly, and went away without another word.

Marion gave some girl-like twists to her brown hair, pinned a gay scarlet bow to the neck of her sack, and, looking fresh and pretty as a rosebud, went to the kitchen, where she had to wait some time before Aunt Betty made her appearance.

Cousin Abijah had brought the old horse and sleigh round to the back door. Here a long slanting roof ran down to the lintel of the door, and up to the plain cornice snow-drifts lay piled. What a winter scene it was! Marion, never having seen the like before, gazed at it in wondering admiration.

When Aunt Betty and Marion started for the village meeting-house, the thermometer was fifteen degrees below zero.

Aunt Betty took a rein in each hand, and as soon as the snow-banks bordering the narrow path to the road were safely passed, began a series of jerks at the horse's mouth, which Dan perfectly well understood, too well, indeed, to allow himself to be hurried in the least.

"One foot up, and one foot down, That's the way to Lunnon town,"

laughed Marion when they had gone a few rods.

"Klick! Klick!" with more decisive tugs from Dan's mistress; but the "Klicks," as well as the tugs, were of no avail, and Marion, afraid to venture another comment, turned her eyes from the horse to the scenery around her.

Notwithstanding the extreme cold, the ride to the little meeting-house Marion will never forget. When she left the farmhouse it seemed to her a short walk would bring her to the foot of the snow-clad mountains; but, to her surprise, when they reached the church they were towering up above the small village like huge sentinels, so still, so grand, that, hardly conscious she was speaking aloud, Marion said,—

"I never knew before what it meant in the Bible where it says, 'The strength of the hills is his also.' Wonderful! wonderful!"

"Eh?" asked Aunt Betty, only a dim comprehension of what Marion meant having crept in beneath the big red hood that covered her head.

Marion repeated the verse, and to her surprise her aunt answered it with, "'Who art thou, O great mountain? Before Zerubbabel thou shalt become a plain: and he shall bring forth the headstone thereof with shoutings, crying grace! grace unto it.'" Not a word did she offer in explanation; she only twitched the horse's head more emphatically, and did not speak again until she reached the meeting-house door.

What a desolate-looking audience-room it was! Up in one corner roared a big iron stove, which, do its best, failed to warm but a few feet of the spaces around it. A gray-bearded minister in his overcoat was reading from the pulpit a hymn, as they went in, and a dozen people, most of them men, were scattered round in the bare pews.

They all looked pleased to see an addition to their number, and some nodded to Aunt Betty; all stared at the new-comer.

There was no sermon, but a short address, which Marion strove to remember, that she might repeat it to her father, as having come from the old pulpit before which he had worshipped as a boy; but, do her best to be attentive and decorous, her teeth chattered, and the "Amen" was to her the most interesting part of the services.

The ride home was even colder than the one to the meeting; for a brisk north-east wind had risen, and came howling down from the mountains in strong, long gusts that betokened a coming storm.

Dan obstinately refused to move one foot faster than he chose, and before they reached home they were thoroughly and, indeed, dangerously benumbed with the cold.

Little thought had they of Thanksgiving, as they clung to the warm stove and listened to the rising of the wind. It was Marion who first remembered the day, and looked about for some way of keeping it. Poor, pinched, half-frozen Aunt Betty had entirely forgotten it.

Now Marion made herself perfectly at home. She found old-fashioned china that would have been held precious in many houses, decorating with it the table in a deft and tasteful way that warmed lonely Aunt Betty's heart, as she watched her, more than the blazing fire could; and while she worked, she talked, or sang little snatches of college songs learned at school, which rippled out in her rich voice with a melody never heard in the old farmhouse before.

It was not long before Aunt Betty came to her help, and such a bountiful dinner as she had prepared made Marion wish over and over again that Helen, alone in that large academy building, could have been there to share it with her.

"Thanksgiving night!" Marion kept saying this to herself over and over again, as she sat alone with Aunt Betty over the kitchen stove.

A little oblong light stand was drawn up between them, holding a small kerosene lamp. Not a book but the Bible, and a copy of the Farmer's Almanac suspended by a string from the corner of the mantel, was to be seen. Marion, having heard so much of the intelligence of the New Hampshire farmers, supposed of course there would be a library in the house, and had brought only her Greek Tragedy with her. This she did not dare open again, so there she sat, Aunt Betty, not having yet entirely recovered from the effects of her cold ride, alternately nodding and rousing herself to a vain effort to keep her eyes open. And all the time the storm was increasing, the wind rocking the house with its rough blasts, until it seemed to utter loud groans, and the sharp cold snapping and cracking the shaking timbers with short volleys of sound like gun-shots. Frightened mice scurried about in the low roof over the kitchen; and rats, lonely rats, seeking company, came to the top of the cellar stairs, pushing the door open with their pointed noses, and blinking in beseechingly with their big round eyes.

Marion, who had never heard anything of the kind before, was really frightened.

"O Aunt Betty," she said piteously, "do, please, wake up and tell me if there are ghosts here!"

Aunt Betty just stared at her; she was wide awake now.

"There are such dreadful noises, and such mice, and—and rats!"

"Nonsense!" said Aunt Betty, listening. "Don't be a coward! It's only the storm."

"It's fearful! What can we do?"

"Pop corn!"

Marion could not help laughing at the inconsequent answer; but anything was better than the noisy stillness of the last hour, and bringing a large brass warming-pan and some corn, they were soon busy popping the corn.

It would have been difficult to say which of the two enjoyed the sport the most. It carried Marion home, where the family were all gathered together before the brisk fire in the cheerful sitting-room. Aunt Betty was young again. Nat and Sam, Bertha and Molly, and little Ruth filled the big, empty kitchen, laughed merrily over the crackling corn, held out small hands to catch it as the cover swung back, pelted each other with it till the spotless floor crunched beneath their dancing feet. It had been long years since they had come home to her before on Thanksgiving night, but here they were now, all evoked by Marion's glad youth.

The moment the old clock struck nine, warming-pan, corn, and dishes vanished from sight.

A long tallow-dip Aunt Betty held out to Marion, and pointed up-stairs.

Marion obeyed; and though all night long the wind howled, the mice and the rats held high carnival, Marion slept soundly, and never knew that Aunt Betty, with her candle held high above her head, made another visit to her bedside, and there, bending her old knees, offered up her simple prayer, asking in much faith and love God's blessing on this new-found niece.



CHAPTER XXIV.

MARION'S REPENTANCE.

No time had been mentioned for the continuance of Marion's visit; and coming as she had from the busy life of the school, where every minute had its allotted task, Thanksgiving week was hardly over before she began to be very homesick. In vain she strove against it, and by every pleasant device in her power tried to make her visit pleasant to her aunt. Even the short November days seemed to her endless, and the evenings had only the early bedtime to make them endurable.

On her first coming, she had told Aunt Betty the day the vacation was over, and evidently she was expected to stay until then; but on the morning of the seventh day she became desperate, and for want of any other excuse hit upon one that would be most displeasing to her aunt.

"You don't like to have me study my Greek here, Aunt Betty," she said; "and, as I must review it before the term begins, I think I had better go back now."

Aunt Betty put her steel-bowed spectacles high up on her nose, and, after looking at her silently for a moment, said,—

"I don't take no stock in your Greek."

Marion laughed good-naturedly. "If you only would let me read it to you," she said, "you would like it as well as I do; it's so soft and beautiful."

"What's the matter with your Bible? Isn't that good enough for you?"

"But, Aunt Betty, you don't understand."

But Aunt Betty did understand enough to be very sure she did not want Marion to go, so she turned abruptly on her heel, and hid herself in the depths of the pantry.

Marion stood for a moment undecided what to do, then, seeing that if she would go that day she had very little time to lose, she went up-stairs, packed her valise, and the next time she saw her aunt was ready for her journey back.

The prospect of a mile walk through the half-broken roads, up steep hills, and down into drifted valleys, would have shown Marion the difficulties had she been a New Englander; but as she was not, her courage did not fail in the least when, without a word more, or any sign of a good-by from Aunt Betty, she opened the door, letting in a cold she was a stranger to, and went out into it.

Of that walk she never liked to speak afterwards. Many times she stopped, almost but not quite willing to return; tired, half-frozen, and unhappy that her rest had terminated unpleasantly, yet so very, very homesick that she seemed driven on to the station,—if to reach it were a possibility.

Fortunately for her, when she had reached the last half she was overtaken by a man driving an empty wood-cart, who stopped and asked her if she "didn't want a lift?" From what this saved her, no one could ever know.

In the mean time, Aunt Betty, with her eyes dimmed—but she did not know it was by tears—had watched her through a slit in a green paper window-shade.

Until she left the door, she did not believe she could do so foolish a thing as to attempt the walk to the station on such a morning; but when she saw her step off so courageously down the narrow foot-path, she began to have misgivings.

Notwithstanding her tears, the sight seemed to harden instead of soften her heart. "If the gal will go, go she will," she said aloud, with some unforgiving wags of her head. "She's stuck full of obstinacy as her father was afore her." And by this time Marion was hidden from her sight by the deep snow-banks, and she turned from the window into her lonely kitchen with a heavy heart.

Marion, safely back in the academy, had, like Aunt Betty, her own troubled thoughts.

She found only Helen there among the scholars, and every teacher away but Miss Ashton, who evidently had not expected her back so soon.

Regular school duties did not begin until Tuesday of the next week, and now it was only Wednesday night. She might have remained in Belden a day or two longer, and then left with her aunt's approval.

What kind of a return had she made to her aunt for her kindness?

Marion's room, that she had thought of with so much longing as she sat in the farm kitchen, had lost its charm. She was very willing to believe it was because her room-mates were not there, and the fast falling darkness prevented her from seeing from her window the winter view, which even the grand old mountains that she had left behind her did not make her value less.

Self-deception was not one of Marion's faults; she grew so quickly regretful for what had happened, that when Miss Ashton came to her door, troubled by the girl's tired look on her arrival, she found her with red eyes and a swollen face.

"Tell me all about it," she said, taking no notice of her tears, but turning up the gas to make the room more cheerful.

"What has gone wrong? Wasn't your aunt glad to see you? Are you sick? Fancy I am mother, and tell me the whole story."

She took Marion's hand in hers, drew the young girl close to her, and stroked the bonnie brown hair with a loving mother's touch.

"It's all my blame," said Marion, her voice trembling as she spoke. "My aunt was as kind as she could be, but it was so lonely, and"—with a smile now—"so noisy there."

"Noisy!" repeated Miss Ashton.

"Yes, ma'am; there were ghosts and rats and mice; the very house groaned and shook, and the wind came howling down from the mountains, and all the windows rattled."

Miss Ashton only laughed; but when Marion went on to tell the story of her leaving the house against her aunt's wishes, she looked very sober.

She had no knowledge of Aunt Betty's circumstances, surroundings, or character, but she knew well the nature of country roads during a New England winter. She thought from Marion's own account that her homesickness had made her obstinate and unreasonable, and that her coming away must have been a source of anxiety to her aunt, while she was unable to prevent it.

"Marion," she said at last, "didn't you think more of yourself than of your aunt?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Marion unhesitatingly.

"And to be selfish is always?"

"Mean. Don't say another word please, Miss Ashton."

"I am sure, Marion, in the future you will be more careful. It is such an easy thing to wound and worry those about whom we should always be thoughtful. If I were you, I would not let a mail go out without carrying a note to your aunt, telling her of your safe arrival here, and of your regrets for what has happened. It's always a noble thing to say 'I'm sorry,' when one has done wrong."

The next mail took the following letter:—

MY DEAR AUNT,—I am going to write you to-night, to tell you two things. One is, that I am safely back again at the academy, and the other, that I think it was both inconsiderate and unkind for me to leave you as I did, when I saw you thought I had better stay with you. I am ashamed and grieved that I did not do as you wanted me to. I hope most sincerely you will forgive me and forget it.

I cannot easily forgive myself, and I am sure I shall never forget all your kindness to me, or the nice time we had with the bright warming-pan and the crisp pop-corn, or the wonderful mountains all wrapped in their ermine mantles.

Please forgive, and love your ashamed niece, MARION PARKE.

Aunt Betty's correspondence amounted sometimes to two letters a year, so this penitent letter of Marion's remained in the post-office until the postmaster found a chance to send it to her. By that time, what she had suffered from anxiety had made her unable to cope with the perils of the winter before her, and she often said to the few visitors who came in to see her, "I've dropped a stitch I can never take up again," but never a word of blame for Marion did she speak; indeed, she had come to love the young girl so well, that it is doubtful whether, even in her heart, she harbored one hard thought toward her.

The letter finished, Marion's conscience gave her less uneasiness. No thought had she of the suffering her selfish action had occasioned. The visit had, after all, many pleasant memories, and for her only beneficial results. There had come to her from her repentance and Miss Ashton's kind reproof, a lesson, if not new, at least impressive, of the necessity of thinking of others more than of one's self.

She could not see her Greek Tragedy without a smile, indeed, she went so far as sometimes to think that its reception in the old kitchen of the farmhouse had given her a greater avidity for its study.

On the whole, this winter visit was by no means a lost one; and when Saturday brought more of the scholars back, and the term began, she was fully ready for it.

On Sunday morning Nellie, feeling lonely and sick, had come to Marion's room. Marion made a nice bed for her on her sofa, and sat by her side bathing her hot, aching head, now and then reading to her.

Toward night she complained of her throat; fearing Miss Ashton would send her to the nurse if she were told of it, she would not let Marion go to her, but begged to stay where she was so piteously that Marion gladly consented, asking leave of the teacher, but not mentioning Nellie's sickness.

The consequence was, that the disease progressed rapidly, and when morning came she was too sick even to object to the nurse, who, surprised and bewildered, sent for Miss Ashton at once.

Dr. Dawson, the physician of twenty years' academical sickness, being summoned, pronounced it a case of diphtheria, and ordered Nellie's removal to the rooms used as a hospital, and Marion's separation from the rest of the school, as she had been exposed to the same disease.



CHAPTER XXV.

DIPHTHERIA.

On Tuesday the regular exercises of the day were to begin. All day Monday, carriage after carriage came driving up to the academy, depositing their loads of freight,—excited girls full of the freshness and pleasure gathered from their brief holiday. The long corridors were merry with affectionate osculations. Light, happy laughs danced out from rosy lips, and arms were twined and intertwined in the loving clasp of young girls. So much to tell! So much to hear! Miss Ashton, welcoming the coming groups, called it a "Thanksgiving Pandemonium;" but she enjoyed it quite as much as any of the rioters. In the evening, when they were all together in the large parlor, she turned the gathering into a pleasant party, helped to fill it with fun and frolic, and sent even the most homesick to their rooms with smiles instead of tears.

Not a word had been said of Nellie Blair's sickness. There is no place where a panic is more easily started and harder to control than in a girls' school; nor is there any cause that will so surely awaken it as a case of diphtheria. Its acute suffering, its often sudden end, its contagiousness, all combine to make it the most dreaded of diseases.

Some reason had to be given, of course, for the condition in which Marion's room-mates found their room on their arrival, also for Marion's removal. Miss Ashton had guardedly told them the truth, with the strictest request that they should keep it to themselves; but, in spite of her injunction, that night after the party broke up, there was not a girl in the hall who did not know and who was not alarmed by Nellie's sickness.

Anxious groups gathered together in the corridors and discussed it. Some fled to their rooms and wrote hurried notes home, asking for leave to come back at once. The panic had begun, augmented beyond doubt by the excitement consequent on the return. Miss Ashton was besieged by girls, all anxious to know the exact state of the case, and not a few clamoring for leave to go away, even that very night, from the contagion.

Had she any less influence over this frightened crowd, or they any less trust in her wisdom and kindness, half of the rooms would have been empty before morning; but, as it was, simply by telling them the truth, that Nellie had diphtheria, but that the doctor said that it was not a malignant case, and that there was not the slightest danger of its spreading, with even ordinary care, she succeeded in so far quieting their fears that they went to their rooms, though, if she had only known it, to discuss with even more excitement than they had shown to her the dreadful possibilities before them.

One girl actually stole out at midnight and, hurrying through the cold and darkness, went to the house of a cousin who lived near by, waking and alarming the family in a way that they found hard to forgive, and taking by this exposure so severe a cold that, serious lung symptoms developing, she was sent home, and her academical course ended. The next morning when the school gathered in the chapel, they found Dr. Dawson on the stage.

After the preliminary exercises were over, he rose, and said,—

"Young ladies, I understand you have taken fright on account of the case of diphtheria that is occurring here. I am an old man, as you see, and have had a hundred, perhaps five hundred cases as like this as two peas in a pod." (He stopped, expecting a smile at least for his homely comparison, but every face was as sober as if he had come to sound a death-knell.) "Miss Blair is sick, I might say is very sick, but I am not in the least anxious about her, or about any of you. Under ordinary circumstances, and I consider these very ordinary, I think there is not any probability of another case in the house.

"Take an old physician's advice. Stay where you are, go promptly and faithfully about your regular duties, don't mention the word diphtheria, and don't think of it. If I were a life-insurance agent, I would insure those of you who obeyed my injunctions for half the premium that I would those who worry over this, or run away. Again I say, go faithfully about your ordinary duties, and all of you" (dropping his voice into solemn tones now) "ask God to be with and protect you, and restore to you your sick companion."

Then he took up his hat and marched down through the long, girl-bordered aisle, smiling and nodding to those he knew as he went.

On the whole, his speech did little to allay the panic. He had not only allowed that Nellie was very sick, but he had talked about "life-insurance," and asking God for protection. Qualms of fear followed him as he went. Miss Ashton understood the assembly better than the wise physician, and before he had closed the door she regretted that she had asked him to address them.

One part of his advice, however, was sound; that regarding to the scholars at once resuming their work, and putting diphtheria out of conversation and mind. If only good advice could or would always be taken, what a different world it would be!

Fortunately here, among these two hundred girls, there were leaders both sensible and trusted, who did follow the doctor's advice, went at once about their studies, and ably seconded the exertions of the teachers to resume the usual routine of work.

Among the most prominent of these was Dorothy Ottley. She had that indescribable moral power over the girls which comes, and one is tempted to say comes only, from a consistent, faithful, gentle, loving character. She did not draw to herself that impulsive love which is here to-day and gone to-morrow, so common among girls; but if any were sad or sick or in trouble they instinctively sought Dorothy, and they always found in her what they needed.

She was plain looking; her sea-browned face, her thin, light hair that wind and wave had bleached, the pathetic look that years of a hard life had stamped upon her, could not conceal, could not even dim, the strong, true soul that looked out of her gray eye, or change the effect of the honest words her lips always spoke. Now, wherever she went, the girls clustered around her, followed her example in prompt attendance on the regular duties, and somehow, no one could have told you just how, felt safer that she was there.

Marion, Miss Ashton kept from among them. If she had been exposed to the disease from Nellie's being with her, it might be best not to allow her to mingle with the others; besides, they would shun her, and that Marion would find hard to bear. As it was not known except to her room-mates that she had returned from her vacation, this was easy to do; and so in the pleasant guest-room Marion went on with her studies without a fear of diphtheria, only thinking of, and anxious for, the sick friend.

It was Gladys who began the series of attentions that on the second day filled Nellie's room with gifts of flowers, of fruit, of books, even of candy and pretty toys, which the girls had already begun to gather for the coming Christmas. Miss Mason, the trained nurse, was kept busy at certain hours answering the teacher's knock who brought the gifts and the accompanying love,—and Nellie, poor Nellie, struggling with the pain and the uncertainty, was cheered and helped by loving attentions given to her for the first time in her desolate life.

Miss Ashton, hearing every hour from the sickroom, shared in the cheer and the help; there was a reward to her in this proof of the tenderness and generosity of that wonderful woman's nature she had made it her life's work to develop and train.

Each day there was a bulletin put up in the hall, stating Nellie's condition. It was always cheerful. Miss Ashton wrote,—

"Nellie is cross this morning. Dr. Dawson pronounces it the best symptom he has seen since she was taken sick."

"Nellie has asked for a piece of that mince-pie one of you sent her. Nurse says, 'No,' but looks much pleased at the request."

"Rejoicing in the hospital! a decided improvement in Nellie."

"Nellie teases to sit up."

"Nellie lifted onto the sofa! Dressed in my old blue wrapper! Looks white and funny."

"Nellie sends her love and thanks to all her kind, kind friends."

"Nellie teasing to see Marion Parke."

"Nellie pronounced out of danger."

"Nellie removed to Mrs. Gaston's, where she will stay until she is strong enough to resume her studies. Sends love and thanks."

The next day there were rumors around the school that Marion Parke, who had been missed by this time, and accounted for, was taken sick with diphtheria, and was much worse than Nellie had ever been.

Now, of course, the panic began anew; and as many of the girls had written home and obtained leave to return, more than that, commands to do so, as the sick girl's case was contagious, Miss Ashton found all her trouble renewed.

She had been besieged with letters from anxious parents, charging her not to trifle with their children's lives, but by all means to send them home at once if there was the least real danger; so now she had no hesitation in letting those go who wished, indeed it was a relief to her to have the number of her school smaller, and the anxiety lessened; but now it was only a scare. Marion did have a sore throat, but it was one which comes often with an ordinary cold, and Dr. Dawson laughed at it, gave her some slight medicines, and scolded Miss Ashton for having separated her so long from the girls.

The girls gave her a wide berth, but for this Miss Ashton had prepared her, and Marion was more amused than hurt by it.

Before a week had passed, the four room-mates were together in their old rooms, and Marion was made a heroine. All she had done for Nellie was exaggerated, with that generous exaggeration of which girls are so capable.

After all, this diphtheritic episode had only been injurious to the school inasmuch as it had broken into the regular routine, and thrown hindrances into the completion of work which was expected to be done before the coming on of the long holiday vacation.

That Christmas and New Year's came so soon after Thanksgiving was something for the teachers to deplore; but as they were in no way responsible for it, and as indeed Christmas was a religious holiday, well in keeping with the animus of the institution, they met it heartily, the more so than usual this year, as they hoped, the vacation over, to resume the regular course, both in study and discipline, without any further interruption.



CHAPTER XXVI.

CHRISTMAS COMING.

The Demosthenic Club had received two severe setbacks since its organization. One when Kate Underwood's tableaux fell under Miss Ashton's displeasure on account of the carelessness it had shown in injuring, for fun's sake, the feelings of a schoolmate; the other when members of the club had been guilty of a flagrant breach of the rules, by the stolen sleigh-ride with the Atherton boys.

"In spite of it all," Kate Underwood said, "we will just change its name, and go on as if nothing had happened. We are to be now the 'Never Say Die Club.' Vote on it, girls."

The new name was adopted by acclamation, and several other votes were carried at the same time, all in favor of law and order, showing how truly these girls had meant to keep the promises they had made in their extremity to Miss Ashton, to be law-abiding members of the school.

They held their secret meetings as often and as secretly as their constitution demanded; they discussed all questions that the interests of the times suggested. If they had a spread, it was before study hours, and with unlocked doors. On the whole, Jenny Barton, Kate Underwood, and Mamie Smythe took the lessons they had received into good, honest hearts, and grew, by the many resisted temptations which were born of the secrecy of their club, into better, nobler characters.

Miss Ashton, watching them with vigilant eyes, marked the improvement, and showed her value of it by greater confidence in its leading members.

There was an important meeting to be held a week before the breaking up for the Christmas vacation. It was to be in Lilly White's room, where, indeed, most of their meetings were held, for Lilly had a room by herself, richly furnished, this being the only inducement her parents could offer her, that made her consent to the fearful ordeal of a few years at school,—to be dull and to be wealthy! Who would desire it for any child?

"You understand," said President Jenny Barton, after the meeting was called to order, "that this is to be no common affair. It's to be, well! it's to be a sort of atonement for—well, for those other affairs; and, girls, if we do anything about it, let's do it up handsome. What do you say?"

"Do it jist illigant, or let it alone," said Mamie Smythe.

"Jist illigant!" repeated one member of the club after another, until the president said,—

"Motioned, and carried. Now for our plan. Keep it a profound secret!"

Such a busy place as the academy became now, probably had its counterpart in every girls' boarding-school all over the length and breadth of our land.

Where there is good discipline and good scholarship, neither the rules nor the lessons are allowed to be slighted; but as December days shorten, and December cold strengthens, even the most indolent pupil finds herself under a certain stress of occupation which she cannot resist.

Shirking can find no place in the recitation-room. Moments that have been idled away now become precious, each one laden with its weight of some loving remembrance to be made for the dear ones at home.

Such treasures of delicate silks, laces, plushes, velvets, ribbons, embroideries, card-boards, tassels, cords, gilt in every shape and capable of every use; such pretty gift-books, booklets, cards, afghans, sofa-pillows, head-rests; such wonders of ingenuity in working up places for thermometers, putting them in dust-pans, tying them onto bread-rollers, slipping them behind wonderful clusters of sweet painted flowers; such pen-wipers, such blotters, work-baskets, paper-baskets, bureau coverings, bureau mats! napery of all varieties; and, after all, this enumeration is but the beginning of what in Montrose Academy was hidden in drawers, stowed away in most impossible and impracticable places, yet always ready to the hand for a spare moment. Two hundred girls,—for by this time most of the diphtheritic runaways had returned,—and all, without an exception, were Christmas busy! Christmas crazy! What a changed place it made of the school!

Benedictions on the hallowed holiday! If we put aside its religious bearing, think of it only as a time when heart goes out to heart, even the most selfish of us all will remember to show our love in a visible token of affection.

If, with all this, we can make our offerings hallowed by a tenderer love and a deeper affection for Him in whose honor the whole world keeps the festival, then, indeed, the day becomes to us the most blessed and beautiful of our lives!

Marion Parke saw it as it was kept here in an entirely new way. At her Western home, her father had made it a day of religious observance. Marion had always been leader in trimming their church with the pretty greens which their mild winter spared to them, and on Christmas Sunday they sang Christmas hymns, and listened to a Christmas sermon. On Christmas Eve they had a Christmas-tree, and hung it with such useful gifts as their necessities demanded and a small purse could provide. It was a happy, precious day, simply and heartily kept; but here she was lost in wonder, as she was called from room to room to see the rare and beautiful gifts which, it seemed to her, abounded everywhere. Money to purchase such things for herself to give away she had not, but she watched her room-mates, as they deftly prepared their gifts for their Rock Cove homes, with delight.

How busy and happy they were! Sometimes Marion's longing to send something, if only a little remembrance, home brought the tears into her eyes.

Gladys was the first to see this and to guess its cause. At once she began to purchase new silks, trimmings of all kinds, booklets, cards, increasing her store, until even her cousins, accustomed as they were to her fitful extravagances, wondered at her.

When her drawers, never too orderly, began to assume a chaotic appearance, she said fretfully one morning to Marion Parke, who was looking and laughing at the chaos,—

"I should think, instead of laughing at me, it would be a great deal better natured in you to help me put them into some kind of order. Your drawer isn't half full. Look here! open it, and let me tuck some of these duds in."

Marion opened hers, pushed the few things it contained carefully into a corner, and said,—

"You are very welcome to all the room you want. Remember, I am only here on sufferance; it is really all yours."

"Nonsense! help me, can't you? I shall pitch them in any way, and you are so tidy!"

Help her Marion did, and when the jumbled but valuable contents of the drawer were all transferred, Gladys shut it up with a gleeful laugh.

"Oh, how splendid it is," she said, "to have the drawer clean and clear again! Never one of those duds is going back, and you can use them or throw them away; put them in a rag-bag if you want to; I've nothing more to do with them."

Then Sue and Dorothy understood what the extravagance meant, but Marion did not; she only stood still, staring at Gladys, wondering what she could have said or done to vex her kind-hearted room-mate. And it was not until hours afterward, when she was alone with Dorothy, and Dorothy told her they were gifts to her, that she knew how rich in Christmas treasures she had suddenly become.

And here it is pleasant to tell, that this was only one of Gladys's thoughtful kindnesses. Little bundles of similar gifts were constantly going from her to the doors of the girls whose small means made Christmas presents luxuries in which they could not indulge. Even Gladys's liberal father wondered often over the amount of money which she wished for these holidays; but he trusted her, and in truth felt proud and glad that this only child had a noble, generous nature, which could, and did, think of others more than of herself; for in the account which she always sent him of the expenditure of these moneys, while there were many "give aways," there were few dollars spent on herself.

One day, in the regular mail-bag, there came this note to Miss Ashton:—

We, the undersigned, grateful for the undeserved kindnesses with which you have made our repentant days so happy, request the pleasure of your company in the parlor, Tuesday evening, December 22.

JENNY BARTON, SOPHY KANE, KATE UNDERWOOD, MAMIE SMYTHE, LUCY SNOW, LILLY WHITE, MARTHA DODD,

and all the members of the "Never Say Die Club."

"What are those girls up to now?" Miss Ashton said with a pleasant laugh, as she read the invitation, but she accepted it without any delay, and when she was told by Miss Newton, the confidential helper of the whole school in any of their wants, that the parlor had been lent to the secret society for the evening, and no teacher was to be allowed entrance until eight o'clock, she smilingly acquiesced.

The club were excused from their recitations that afternoon, and it was amusing to see how much spying there was among the rest of the school to find out what was going on. All that could be seen, however, was the coming in of a big boxed article, unfortunately for the curious, so boxed that no one could even guess what it contained.

A general invitation had been given to the whole school, and before the appointed hour for opening the door, groups of girls in full evening dress began to fill the corridor and press close to the door.

When, punctual to the appointed moment, it was flung open, a burst of laughter followed.

Ranged around a covered object in the middle of the room stood twenty girls, dressed in gray flannel blankets made in the fashion of the penitential robes worn by nuns. They all wore stiff white hoods, with the long capes coming down over their shoulders, and each one carried in her hand a small tin pan filled to the brim with ashes.

They stood immovable until Miss Ashton entered the room, when the whole club sank upon their knees, bending their heads until they nearly touched the floor, dexterously placing the tin of ashes upon their backs.

No sooner had they assumed this position than a little flag was unfurled from the top of the covered object in the middle of the room, upon which was printed in large letters:—

"FORGIVE, AND ACCEPT."

Then the covering was slowly removed by some one hidden beneath it, and there stood an elegant writing-desk, on the front of which were the words:—

"A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO MISS ASHTON THE MERCIFUL FROM HER GRATEFUL NEVER SAY DIE CLUB."



CHAPTER XXVII.

CHRISTMAS IN THE ACADEMY.

Marion, two days before Christmas, was once more left alone in her room. The Rock Cove cousins had given her the most cordial invitation to go home with them for the vacation, but she had declined. In doing so, she had a half-acknowledged feeling that she was to suffer just penance for her misdeeds at Belden, and a dread of what unknown trouble she might meet at Rock Cove. This Eastern world was so different from the whole-hearted, kindly one she had left behind her, that instead of wonting to it, she grew timid, diffident of herself, even among the girls, and shy about venturing abroad. So she made her mind up bravely to stay where she was, and spend her vacation in study.

Miss Ashton fully approved; for since Marion's sickness with her cold, she had shown an inclination to cough, and was often hoarse in the morning. A stay by the seaside in winter would be to run a risk. It might be dull for her to remain, but she loved her books, and there was plenty for her to do in order to keep up with her advanced classes; besides, there were twenty of the pupils whose homes were so distant they could not go there, and return, without taking more time than the vacation allowed, so they, also, were to remain, and Marion, though dull, need not be lonely.

All the teachers but Fraeulein Sausmann were to be absent, and to her care Miss Ashton had to commit the young ladies during the vacation.

The wheels of the carriage that took her away from the academy had hardly ceased to be heard by the anxious listeners there, before Marion's door was opened just far enough to admit the Fraeulein's good-natured face.

Never had her ample head of light hair looked so large, her blue eyes so blue, her nose so retrousse, or her thin lips so thin, to Marion, as now. Before she had time to welcome her, the Fraeulein said in her high-pitched voice,—

"O Marione! Wir happiness time wir have der Christtag. Wir 'ave der Baum so high," holding up a plump little hand as high as she could reach. "Twenty, thirty das Licht! Christtag presented buful! You 'ave one, sieben, zwoelf, four! You come happiness; nicht cry, nicht! nicht! Lachen! so!" and a merry peal of laughter Marion found no trouble in echoing.

"You come parlor Christtag night, you see! I, Santa Claus! Merry Christtag. Catch you! Nicht cry! Lachen! Lachen!"

She shut the door softly, but Marion heard her laugh as she went down the long corridor, such a merry, contagious laugh, that it carried away with it the loneliness from Marion's room.

There was to be a gathering in the parlor then,—der Baum. Twenty, thirty das Licht, and what else? Of one thing Marion felt sure, if she was to receive, one, sieben, zwoelf, four presents, she must give some in return, but what, and to whom?

She was not long in doubt. Lilly White was among those who remained, and the Fraeulein had hardly gone when she made her appearance with four other girls at her door.

"Oui, Fraeulein Marione! Ab alio expectes, alteri quod feceris.

"That's French, Latin, and German. I picked it out of"—

"Don't tell, Lilly White," broke in one of the girls. "See if Marion can translate it."

"Come in and let me try," said Marion, laughing. "Oui—yes; Fraeulein—Miss Marion; Ab alio expectes, alteri quod feceris—If any one gives you a present, be sure you give one back."

"A literal translation," said the same girl. "Miss Jones always said you were her best Latin scholar. Practically, however, it translates,—

"Come with us to Lilly White's room, and we'll show you a thing or two. But we mustn't all go together. If we do, the Fraeulein will be popping down on us to be sure no mischief is brewing."

"I'll tell you what I will do; I will write in German 'No Admittance' on a big placard, and put it outside my door. What is the German, girls?" "Nicht Zulassung," said one of the girls promptly. "Write it, Lilly, in a big, bold hand."

They went together to Lilly's room; and she took a large square of pasteboard, and, without deigning to ask how the words were spelled, she printed in big letters:—

"NOTTZ ULLARSG."

"There!" she said, turning it triumphantly for the others to read. Then she hung it on the outside of the door, moved a table to the door, planted a chair upon it, mounted into the chair, and peeped down through the transom to watch for the Fraeulein's coming.

The others watched her, and all business for the time was suspended.

Pretty soon they heard the pattering of the Fraeulein's little feet along the corridor, then the sudden halting before their door.

Lilly, with a beet-red face, and frantic gestures of two big red hands, motioned them to be still. They heard,—

"N—O—T—T—Z." A significant grunt; then again, "N—O—T—T—Z;" a pause. Again, "N—O—T—T—Z U—L—L—A—R—S—G."

"Hindoostanee? No; Indianee: Marione Parkee!" Then a little laugh, followed by,—

"Marione! Marione! Ope die Thur! What you mean, Nottz Ullarsg?"

"No admittance," said Lilly White through the transom. "Why, Fraeulein, don't you know your own German?"

"Know my own German?" repeated the Fraeulein slowly. "Know—my—own—German? Nein! Nein! German, Lilly White! Nein Vater Land.

"Lilly White, open die Thur, quickest! My own German! Nein! Nein! Nein!

"Marione Parke's Indianee!"

It was some moments before Lilly, the chair and the table, could be removed from the door, the Fraeulein keeping up a series of impatient knockings while she waited.

Then Marion, as the one in whom she would feel the greatest confidence, was pushed to the small opening allowed, and told to say,—

"It's Christmas, almost, dear Fraeulein. It's secrets here now. We can't let you in."

"Indianee?" asked the Fraeulein, pointing to the placard. "What you mean, Marione?"

"It was meant to mean 'No Admittance' in German, Fraeulein."

Such funny little shrieks as the Fraeulein uttered, no one could understand, not even Marion, who was looking in her face. There were anger and fun and amazement, chasing each other in quick succession, her hands beating time to each feeling, as an instrument utters its music to the touch.

To the amazement of all, it ended in the Fraeulein shrieking out,—

"Lilly White! You be a—what you call um der thor, narr, dummkopf, fool, idiotte; you know German, nicht! nicht, you idiotte!"

In these hard words the little German teacher's anger wholly vanished; pulling down the placard, she tore it in bits, gathered them up in her small white apron, made a sweeping courtesy, and trotted away.

As soon as she was fairly out of hearing, the girls began to busy themselves about their Christmas work. Lilly White's room was full of things to be made into pretty gifts for the tree, of which the Fraeulein's share was by far the largest.

There is a wonderful degree of thoughtfulness among a company of girls. Not one there but knew of Marion's circumstances, and how impossible it would be for her, out of her slender purse, to meet the demands of the occasion. If Gladys Philbrick had generously helped her to prepare the pretty gifts which were on their way to her far-away home, so these girls as generously planned that in the Fraeulein's festival she should not find herself in the embarrassing position of being the one who should receive, without making a return.

It was beautiful to see the delicacy with which they managed the whole, so that Marion hardly felt how much they gave, and how pleasantly she received.

On Christmas morning the whole house was early astir. All up and down the corridors, long before the dim light penetrated into them, white-robed figures flitted noiselessly from door to door. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" was whispered inside, until a ghost-like procession of some twenty girls headed for the Fraeulein's room.

This was at the end of the second corridor, and as they approached it not a sound was to be heard from within but the satisfactory one of long and loud snores.

It had been agreed on the previous night that not a door should be locked on the inside, and Helen Stratton, "the cute girl," who could do anything she tried to do, was chosen to open this door. This she did so noiselessly, that the whole twenty girls entered the room and surrounded the Fraeulein's bed without so much as interrupting a single snore. Then all at once a merry chorus broke out with,—

"Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, Fraeulein!"

The Fraeulein stirred in her bed. Then another shout, louder than the first, and she sat bolt upright.

The gas in the hall had been lighted, and stole in through the transom sufficiently to give the ghost-like look the girls sought; but even with this, she was slow in comprehending what was happening.

One more shout, and she sprang out of bed, catching the one nearest to her, and giving her a good, hard shaking. "Der Christtag! Der Christtag! Froehlich Weinacht! Froehlich; I wishes you 'arpy Christtag! What you call it?"

"Merry Christmas!" shouted the girls.

"Ah, Ja! Ja! Merrie Christmas! one Merrie Christmas, a t'ousand Merrie Christmas. Now you go dress! Miss Ashton say, 'Fraeulein, the young ladies tak cough.' You catched me, I catched you to-nacht. You see! gute nacht! gute nacht!"

And like a very small queen, in her pretty nightdress, she waved the girls away, then locked her door; if they had come back only a few minutes later, they would have heard the same musical sounds coming from her bed.

But when the day had fairly dawned, it would have been difficult to find a more wide-awake, alert teacher than the Fraeulein, or one that could have given a truer and pleasanter Christmas day and night.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

FRAeULEIN'S GYMNASTICS.

"Fraeulein, can you have prayers for the young ladies in the small reception-room on Christmas morning?" Miss Ashton asked with much hesitation the day before leaving.

"Ja! Ja!" answered the Fraeulein, all smiles and nods.

"Very well, then, I will give the notice to-night. As Christmas is a religious festival, I shall be glad to have a religious as well as a festival observation of it. As for the matter of going to church, the young-ladies can do as they please; there need be nothing compulsory about it."

"I mistand," and the Fraeulein congratulated herself on her correct English. "All wrong; nein! nein, all."

"Right," said Miss Ashton, laughing.

"Oui, Ja! Der Dank! Tanks. I learn Anglais soon. Patientia, Fraeulein Ashton. I learn soon, by un by."

In compliance with this request, after a hasty Christmas breakfast, the girls assembled in the reception-room, and waited with more curiosity than devotion the coming of the Fraeulein.

She had not been down to breakfast, and when she made her appearance now, it was as if an odd-shaped swan was waddling into the room. From head to foot she was dressed in a fluffy white stuff, that stood out all over her like snow-feathers.

A stifled laugh greeted her, but of this she took no notice; walking slowly to the table that had been prepared for her, she turned a solemn face toward the girls, opened a German prayer-book, and began to read the service for Christmas morning, stopping when she came to the places for the chant, and, motioning to her audience to rise and join her, she sang in sweet tones music familiar to the girls, in which, with the English words they were accustomed to, they all joined.

Then down she fell upon her knees, the others following her example, and with her eyes half shut, and her little hands folded reverently upon her prayer-book, she rattled off prayer after prayer with astonishing rapidity.

Now, though the young ladies had come in anything but a solemn frame of mind, which the Fraeulein's droll appearance was not calculated to change, there was something so devotional, almost solemn, in her rapidly changing expression of face, that they became at once and unconsciously devout. Dropping on their knees, and covering their faces, they joined her "Amens" with hushed voices, and into their susceptible hearts the hallowing influence of the religious festival found ready entrance.

They were hardly prepared to see the Fraeulein spring lightly upon her feet, to hear a merry laugh ring out, and "Good-morgen! good-morgen!" spoken with the accompaniment of a cloud of white batting, that flew off from her arms and shoulders as she laughed.

Queer little Fraeulein! but good and kind as she was queer!

All day long she worked indefatigably alone in the big parlor. Not one of the girls was allowed even so much as a peep within the doors.

The day was a rarely fine one for a New England Christmas. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky; a warm south wind blew gently over the deep snow-drifts; little sparrows hopped delightedly upon the branches of the Norway spruces that grew close to the house, lifted their pretty wings as if to coax the wind and sun, while they chirped their cheerful Christmas carols, stole the late berries from the trees, and twisted their round heads so they could send loving glances up to the bevy of pretty girls that watched and smiled down upon them, as they fed them from their windows.

At seven o'clock the gong was sounded, and the young ladies in gala dresses filed into the bright parlor.

In the centre of the room was a large tree. Near it stood the Fraeulein, smiling and courtesying to each one as she entered. A quaint little figure she was; yet, with all her quaintness, there was enough of dignity to suppress any merriment her appearance might have caused.

The number and variety of these gifts was a marvel to them. When they were fairly distributed, the Fraeulein lifted the cover of an unopened box, and took from it a gift for every teacher.

Good, happy Fraeulein! Not a thoughtful word or a kind act from these to you strangers in a strange land, but you have treasured in your homesick heart, and from the Vater Land you bring to them all to-day your grateful recognition of it all!

Perhaps the happiest of them was the lame Nellie, who, yet weak and pale from her sickness, had with the Fraeulein's consent brought to the Christmas-tree little pictures which she had painted in her convalescence, as gifts to them all. She held tight to Marion's hand. In some way, she could not have told you how, she seemed to herself to have owed to this dear friend the ability to have painted them. It was a little cross she gave Marion, but she had hung on it a wreath of lovely rosebuds, meaning, through them, to convey to Marion how her love had made the cross of her suffering beautiful.

As the vacation had commenced on the twenty-third of December, and school did not begin again until the fifth of January, there was quite a time remaining after the excitement of Christmas had passed.

The more scholarly and industrious of the girls remaining at the academy at once applied themselves to making up whatever deficiencies had occurred in their studies.

Marion found plenty to do, not only for herself, but also for Nellie, whose lessons had necessarily run behind during her illness.

The Fraeulein found them together over their books much oftener than she thought was for their good. Having been thoroughly educated in the German methods of teaching, she was a firm believer in vacation benefits, also in muscular training, which she considered quite as essential for girls as for boys. In her imperfect English, and also by personal illustration, she had tried, ever since her connection with this school, to awaken the teachers, Miss Ashton in particular, to a greater sense of its importance. To be sure, there was a gymnasium in the building, and a regular teacher, who faithfully put her pupils through the exercises commonly allowed to girls. But these seemed to the Fraeulein to be only a beginning of what might be done; so, now, finding herself for a time in sole authority in the school, she at once, as soon as Christmas was over, began to put her girls through what she considered so essential to their health.

She made her first attempt upon Marion and Nellie. Finding them both bent nearly double over their books, Nellie very pale, with dark rings under her eyes, and Marion with flushed cheeks and too bright eyes, she at once routed them from their books, made them stand up before her, and said,—

"Now, do"—and her English word failing her, she drew a long breath from the bottom of her chest, and motioned to them to imitate her.

Marion, never having attempted anything of the kind before, did so partially, and Nellie could only produce something that sounded like a gurgle in her small throat.

The Fraeulein shook her head impatiently, and repeated the process over and over again, Marion gaining a little every time, but Nellie soon discouraged and tired.

"Bard! bard! nicht right—aushauchen tief—so, thus:" (deep breaths from the Fraeulein). Then, seeming suddenly to remember that the girls did not know why she made the request, she tried in an anglicized German, which no one could by any possibility have understood, to explain it to them. She tapped her own head, took up a book, appeared to read it, while she moved the leaves in time with her long inhalations and exhalations.

"Bon scholars! long—so!" Then suddenly she said, "Patientia!" and vanished from the room. In a few minutes the corridor was full of noisy girls, who came direct to Marion's room, and in obedience to the Fraeulein's directions arranged themselves in a circle.

They had only the vaguest idea what they had been called for, but they knew the Fraeulein always gave them "a jolly good time," and came willingly. Merry enough they were for the next hour, and much to the Fraeulein's surprise, for they were quicker than German girls, they made so much progress that, after the second lesson, a plan that was to tell much in future for the well-being of the academy was fully developed.

The Fraeulein drew up a paper in German, in which she detailed not only the benefits physically resulting from her system of deep breathing, but also the help it would be in resting the excited nerves with which so many of the young girls came into the recitation-room. Then, before presenting it to Miss Ashton, she roused the enthusiasm of her class by telling them how much she needed their help, as examples of the great good to be derived from her gymnastics. And the result was that they had not only the amusement of the exercises to help them pass the vacation, but also the benefit resulting from it, and the hope that through them it would become a part of the school-life.

When Miss Ashton returned, she was not a little surprised at the gain she so quickly recognized, nor was she slow in availing herself of its aid.

She had always felt that nothing was more necessary for a good working head than a perfect physical balance, and for that reason she allowed and encouraged a greater amount of amusement, which was relaxation from study, than was common in what is called a finishing school. It was almost the only boast in which she indulged, that, during the twenty years of her care of the academy as principal, she had never had a case of fatal sickness, or, indeed, of any severe enough to excite alarm.

During the fall she obliged the girls, as long as the weather would allow, to spend hours every day in the open air, giving them their choice of exercise,—walking, riding, boating, botanizing, geologizing, any and every thing that would bring to them rest and change. In winter there was dancing in the large hall, there were compulsory gymnastics, there were skating on the pond, coasting on the hills back of the academy, or, not so seldom as it might have been supposed would be the case among girls, snowballing in the most approved boy-fashion.

Indeed, once upon a time it was reported that, having come out, as she generally made a point of doing whenever any amusement was going on, to witness the sport, a girl more audacious than any of the others ventured to throw a snow-ball in the direction of her august person, and it was received with such a merry laugh, that another followed, and another, and another, until she was as ermine-covered as if she were dressed for a court reception; and not a girl among the laughing crowd but loved her better and respected her more.

"My best recitations," she was often heard to say, "come after the best frolics. Give me pupils with steady nerves, bright eyes, and sweet, clear voices, and I will show you a school where they study well, and the deportment is of the best.

"I am never so anxious about my girls as when the weather shuts them in-doors, and the cold makes them want to hug the radiators."

It was on account of the good common-sense by which this method of regulation was carried on, that the school was sought far and near; to this, in a great measure, it owed its success.

The gymnastic teacher already employed was a good one for the old methods; but there was something so inspiring in the Fraeulein's enthusiasm on the theory of long breaths, that Miss Ashton made it at once a part of daily practice, and put her in as teacher for those classes.

Watching the result of the experiment, it took Miss Ashton but a short time to satisfy herself as to its immediate benefits; and as for the girls themselves, they were so amused and strengthened by the lessons that, after a little practice, it became a favorite diversion, and you would find them often in merry groups, inhaling and exhaling, perhaps not in exact accordance with the Fraeulein's rules, but gaining at least in proportion to their enjoyment. As for the Fraeulein, a very happy and proud teacher she boastfully declared herself.



CHAPTER XXIX.

WOMEN'S WORK.

The Christmas holidays being over, the young ladies returned slowly, and many of them reluctantly, to the school.

A few left for good; some of them on their own account, some at the request of the principal. New pupils took their places, and almost at once the regular routine of work began.

Miss Ashton in one of her short morning talks told them, while the past term had been in many respects a satisfactory one, there had been several occurrences which she should be sorry to see repeated. It would not be necessary for her to enumerate them; they were well known to the old pupils, and for the new ones, she sincerely hoped there would be no occasion for them ever to hear of them.

There were now some important things, upon strict attendance to which she should insist during the remainder of the year.

One was, a more honest observance of the study hours; another, less gossip: perhaps she should be better understood if she said a higher tone of social intercourse. A thing never to be forgotten was, that the school-life was a preparation for the longer one beyond, and that, a preparation for the one that never ends.

"Sometimes," she said, dropping into that hushed tone which every girl in the remotest seat from her desk heard so easily, "I think our lives are but the school in which we all have set lessons to learn, set tasks to perform; and our wise Teacher, so patient, so gentle, so loving with us, when the great examination day comes, will hold us strictly accountable for every slighted lesson, for every neglected duty.

"If I could only impress upon you to-day how vitally important here and hereafter the faithful discharge of even your smallest duties may be to you, I should know that when our year together is over, and I part from many of you for the last time, I should meet you again as 'crowns of my rejoicing.'

"I need hardly say, certainly not to the more intelligent, who would naturally gather information of this kind, how varied and important a woman's work in life has grown to be. You are all more or less familiar with the fact that we have now entrance into the best colleges, both here and abroad. You know how we are educated for every profession, and to what eminence many of us have climbed. You understand fully, that there is not a position in the literary, business, mechanical, or art world in which to-day a woman may not be found working successfully.

"You know, too, that where prizes have been offered in academical institutions, no matter for what object, it is by no means an uncommon thing for it to be awarded to a girl. Last week a class of fourteen women were graduated from the law department of the University of the City of New York. It is said to be the first law class exclusively of women that has ever been graduated.

"Two female medical graduates have been appointed house surgeons at two English hospitals. A society has been incorporated in New York entitled the 'Colonial Dames of America,' and to be located in New York City.

"Its objects are set forth to be, to collect manuscripts, traditions, relics, and mementoes of by-gone days for preservation; to commemorate the history and success of the American Revolution and consequent birth of the republic of the United States; to diffuse healthful and intelligent information with regard to American history, and tending to create a popular interest therein, and to inspire patriotism and love of country; to promote social interest and fellowship among its members, and to inculcate among the young the obligations of patriotism and reverence for the founders of American constitutional liberty.

"A number of prominent ladies are included in the list of officers.

"In this connection I will read you a short article I found in my morning paper; and here, let me say, there is not a girl in the school who should not in some way manage to spend a half-hour every day in looking over a newspaper.

"I have heard intelligent gentlemen complain of the ignorance of women about the ordinary public life.

"'They will talk to you,' they say, 'about housekeeping and servants: they grow eloquent over their children, and sometimes their husbands; but take them out of the region of home, and they are dull company.'

"The exceptions of those who are up in the literary, political, scientific, and socialistic world is infinitely small, and all—all because they will not take the trouble to make themselves intelligent on the great questions of the day, by reading newspapers."

To go on, however, with what women are doing.

"The New Women's Propylaeum, in Indianapolis, Indiana, is now completed, and was dedicated January 27.

"This building bears the distinction of being the first one erected by women not associated as a club or society. Primarily, its use is for purely business purposes, and secondly, with an educational object in view. Six or seven women, with Mrs. May Wright Sewall at the head, have raised the money and carried out the project. It seemed at first to the public generally like a wild scheme, but the women who had the matter in hand knew just what they wanted, and made every effort to carry out their plans successfully. The board of managers is made up of fifteen women.

"Mrs. Sewall says, 'The building of the Propylaeum has been to all of us a valuable experience. We have been obliged to meet business men, and to familiarize ourselves with business methods, and have thus acquired an education unusual to women. The lot has a frontage of seventy-five feet, and a depth of sixty-seven feet. The building contains twenty-one rooms, there being two stories above an English basement. The lot cost $5,500, and the building complete $22,500, making a total of $28,000; and $2,000 has been put into furniture. The front of the Propylaeum is of ashlar and rock-face work, and it is pronounced a very beautiful structure. The women take special pride in the kitchen, which is complete in every respect. In the front basement are two sets of doctors' offices, both of which were rented long ago; one set to Dr. Maria Gates, and the other to Dr. Mary Smith. Dr. Gates is a graduate of the Chicago Medical College, and Dr. Smith of the Michigan University. The latter is physician at the female prison and reformatory.

"'The east parlor is rented by the Woman's Club, the Matinee Musicale, the Indianapolis Art Association, and the Contemporary Club, each of which has arranged to meet on such occasions that they will not interfere with each other. The west parlor is rented for physical culture classes, and to the Christian scientists for their Sunday meetings. The assembly hall will be for rent for entertainments.'

"This is interesting, as showing what an active, intelligent set of women have done.

"Perhaps some day I shall be receiving newspaper notices of even more important and successful work accomplished by some of my pupils. Here is an interesting notice of women as inventors: 'Within the last century, women have entered for the first time in the history of the world as competitors with men in the field of original contrivances. In the last two years and a half they have secured from the government exclusive rights in five hundred machines and other devices. In the line of machinery, pure and simple, the patent-office reports show they have exhibited great inventive capacity. Among remarkable patents of theirs, are patents for electrical lighting, noiseless elevated roads, apparatus for raising sunken vessels, sewing-machine motors, screw propellers, agricultural tools, spinning-machines, locomotive wheels, burglar alarms.

"'Quite a sensation has been caused among the clerks in the New York post-office by the entrance of seven young women into the money-order department as clerks during the last month. The girls obtained their positions by surpassing their male competitors at the civil-service examination, and will receive the same pay as male clerks.'

"Here is another that will interest the ambitiously literary among you:—

"'Miss Kingsley, daughter of Charles Kingsley, has been awarded the decoration of the French academic palms, with the grade of "officer of the academy," for her valuable writings upon French art.'

"There seems, as you will notice from what I have read you, no bounds to what we women not only can do, but in which our success is generously allowed and honorably mentioned; but there are several things to which I may as well call your attention here.

"There is not now, there never has been, an honorable achievement, but it has been gained by steady, persevering effort. I think I could pick out from among the young ladies before me, those who in the future will be able to hold positions of trust and usefulness, perhaps renown; they are the girls who are true, honest workers, day in and day out, week in and week out. This honest work never has been, never will be, done where time is frittered away, where rules are broken, where those numberless little deceits which I am grieved to say many a girl who should be far above them sometimes practises; it requires a noble character to do noble work.

"I am desirous, particularly so, to impress upon you all to-day, as it is the beginning of our longest, hardest, and most important term of the year, the necessity for every one of you individually doing her best as a scholar, as a lady, and, let me add, what I wish I could feel sure you would strive for beyond all other claims, as a Christian. A true Christian is as good a scholar as her natural abilities allow, a lady she must be everywhere, and at every time.

"In closing, I have one request to make of you; you will see, while it does not seem to bear immediately upon what I have been saying, there is a close connection.

"I want to turn your attention specially to women's work in this nineteenth century. When you learn in a more extended manner than I have been able to give you this morning, what they have done, what they are doing, and what they expect to do, you will realize more fully your share in the life before you.

"In order that you may do this, at some not distant time, we will all meet in the parlor, and I shall expect every one of you to bring to me some account of this work. From two hundred of you, we ought to gather enough to make us not only proud of being women, but ambitious to be among the leaders of our sex."

* * * * *

Then she dismissed the school.



CHAPTER XXX.

DECEIT.

Miss Ashton's talk had an excellent influence upon the school. Even the wealthy girls felt there was something worth living for but society and fashion. A large proportion of the pupils were from families in moderate circumstances; to them avenues of access to power and influence were opened. To the poor, of whom there were not a few, help in its best sense was offered in ways that faithful diligence would make their own.

In just so far as Miss Ashton had made these two things, faithfulness and diligence, the ground-work of all success, she had given the true character to her school; and as the work of the term began with this demand upon the attention of the pupils, there was a fair prospect of its being the best of the year. The holidays had come and gone. Not a room in the large building but bore evidence of its wealth in Christmas gifts.

New books covered many of the girls' tables, new pictures hung on their walls; chairs, old and faded, blossomed into new life with their head-rests, their pretty pillows and elaborate scarfs; ribbons of all colors decked lounges, tables, curtains; pen-wipers, lay gracefully by the side of elegant ink-stands, perfume bottles stood on etageres, while the numbers of hand-painted toilet articles, articles to be used in spreads, bric-a-brac of all kinds and descriptions, it would have been hard to number.

Pretty, tasteful surroundings are as much a part of a girl's true education as the severer curriculum that is offered to her in her studies, and Miss Ashton gave the influences of these Christmas gifts their full value when she weighed the harder work for the teachers which the vacation always brought.

To be sure, there came a time at the beginning of the term when the unwise parents were responsible for much bad work. Those of their children who had come back with boxes filled with Christmas luxuries—candies, pies, cakes, boxes of preserved fruits, nuts, raisins, and whatever would tempt them to eat out of time and place—had little chance to do well in the recitation-room until these were disposed of.

In truth, even more difficult, more of a hindrance in her school discipline, Miss Ashton often found the parents than their children.

She was sometimes obliged to say, "I could have done something with that girl if her mother had let her alone." One fact had established itself in her experience, that almost every girl committed to her care had, in the home estimation of her character, traits which demanded in their treatment different discipline from that given to any of the others.

She could have employed a secretary with profit, simply to answer letters relating to these prodigies, and nine out of ten proved to be only girls of the most common stamp, both for intellect and character.

Marion had spent her vacation time in a profitable manner. As mathematics was her most difficult study, so she had given her attention almost entirely to it; and even Miss Palmer, who was never good-natured when a pupil was advanced into one of her classes, and by so doing made her extra work, was obliged to confess she was now among her best scholars.

Thus encouraged, Marion received an impetus in all her other studies; and, of course, as good scholarship always will, this added to the influence which her sterling moral worth and kindly ways had already given her.

There was one dunce in her mathematical class who gave her great annoyance; it was Carrie Smyth, a Southern girl, into whose dull head no figures ever penetrated.

There was something really pitiable as she sat, book in hand, trying to puzzle out the simplest problem, and Marion often helped her, until Miss Palmer prohibited it.

"I will not allow it," she said decidedly. "If Carrie cannot get her own lessons we ought to know it, and to treat her accordingly. Whatever assistance she needs, I prefer to give her myself."

Marion obeyed, and Carrie cried, but the consequences followed at once.

Carrie soon learned to copy from Marion's slate whatever she needed, and, as Marion sat next her in the class, this was an easy thing to do; and as Miss Palmer, wisely, seldom asked Carrie any but the simplest questions, well knowing how useless any others would be, she escaped detection until, one day, grown bolder by her escapes, she copied from Marion more openly, Marion seeing her. That this might have happened once, but never would again, Marion felt quite sure; but what was her dismay, when she saw it continue day after day. She was ashamed to let Carrie know of her discovery, as many another noble girl has been under similar circumstances, but she knew well that it could not be allowed, and that to pretend ignorance of the fact was wrong.